It can be argued that there are two
types of philosophy—or rather that there are two modes of thought which are both
conventionally included under the single term, Philosophy. For the present we
must accept this verbal unity as a fact, without examining the legitimacy or the
propriety of the marriage. There exist two modes of thought because there are
two distinct series of questions confronting the individual whose function it
is to supply answers to the most general inquiry. The first series deals with
our knowledge of the world; the second with the lives of men. One type of philosophy
is an extension of, and a commentary on, science; the other treats those problems
arising from the situations men find themselves in, with respect both to the world
and to each other.

The first of these philosophies has a
task that, at first glance, is clearly defined (or which it is possible to regard
as clearly defined), although the exercise of this philosophy gives rise to a
host of special problems involving its function, its tactics, its results, and
its very existence. This philosophy strives to make sense out of the contradictory
assertions of the sciences, each of which tends to go its own way. It seeks to
draw up periodic balance sheets and to define with precision the ideas and techniques
that develop as the scientists proceed with the construction of the edifice of
knowledge. And, finally, from its observations of the practices, the experiments,
the positive findings, the errors and failures, and the triumphs and setbacks
of the sciences, it attempts to draw conclusions concerning the nature and functions
of intelligence-in-general. Admittedly, these investigations into the sciences
have a historical legitimacy: Plato, for example, carried out just such a task
when he undertook to resolve the problems raised by the introduction of the concept
of incommensurability. The value of this philosophical genre, which it would be
best to call simply "general logic," is a matter for debate between the scientists
and the philosophers. The question is purely academic and is not of immediate
concern to the layman. Nor does it directly affect Philosophy, or human wisdom
in general. One cannot say to M. Rey, professional philosopher, that he does not
practice philosophy because he applies his thoughts to theoretical physics and
grapples with the dilemmas of thermodynamics. He would reply—no doubt in a calm,
rational manner—that he practices his profession as he sees fit and that no one
has any right to accuse him of betraying the humanitarian mission of Philosophy,
whatever that may be. Why, M. Rey might add, don’t you accuse my neighbor, who
is a physician, of betraying the mission of medicine because he has failed to
condemn preventive detention? Why don’t you accuse my other neighbor, who is a
cobbler, of betraying the shoemaker’s craft because he is not protesting against
the massacres of Indochinese peasants? And this would be a reasonable reply, which
could be backed up with a number of solid arguments. M. Meyerson would probably
make the same reply. One cannot accuse M. Rey and M. Meyerson of betraying their
philosophical calling just because they are content to till their own plot of
ground. After all, the activity they are engaged in, the kind of thinking they
do, is of a purely technical character; it must be judged from a purely technical
standpoint, and the only possible verdict would be that they are doing their job
well or doing it poorly, just as one would say of an engineer that he is either
doing his job well or doing it poorly. It may be—nay, it is likely—that M. Rey,
philosopher of science, is doing a poor job: Lenin, for example, found that M.
Rey was not a very good engineer. But this question is not one that has to be
resolved at once. For its resolution, its implications, are of concern to the
scientists: Messrs. Perrin, Langevin, Urbain, and Painlevê will have something
to say on this score. These men may well have a good laugh when they think of
the sorry figure science cuts in a M. Brunschvicg. I myself do not feel obligated
to share their mirth.

It would not be possible to call M.
Meyerson to account in the name of a more human philosophy; the quality and importance
of his writings are matters that he and the scientists must settle. M. Meyerson
did not declare at the beginning of his Déduction relativiste or
his Identité et réalité that human destiny was the
ultimate object of his philosophical inquiry. Thus he could not be accused of
deliberately splitting himself in two, which would constitute a treasonable act;
for, if he does present a split personality, this duality is not inherently contradictory—any
more than the split personality of a chemist who is both a chemist and a Christian
would be incompatible with the essence of chemistry. The questions that one is
entitled to ask this chemist and M. Meyerson were not designed especially for
these two men. They are indistinguishable from the general questions that one
feels justified in asking any man-in-general, any bourgeois-in-general, or any
Christian-in-general, regardless of his professional functions. If a person, as
bourgeois or as Christian, is an enemy of mankind, this does not mean
that as highly trained specialist he also, or specifically, will be an
enemy of mankind. Specialists as specialists are in a very secure position;
they are immune to attack. If a chemist invents an explosive, he is still only
a chemist—and probably a good chemist at that. If he recommends that this explosive
be used at once against unfortified towns or striking workers, he is clearly a
traitor to mankind; but he remains a good chemist nonetheless he has in no way
betrayed chemistry. There are really no grounds for opening a separate file on
this chemist or for entering his name in a special list of traitorous chemists.

On
the other hand, the second type of philosophy is at present in a situation totally
inconsistent with its basic character: this philosophy, or mode of thought, has
assigned itself the task of making an assessment of human life. That is its express
purpose, and its practitioners are aware of their goal. Its reason for being is
to find the guiding principle of life on earth. It has been searching for this
principle since time immemorial, and it is still looking. It is never content
to formulate mere existential judgments. It claims that it is expressing the will
of humanity. It decrees what men should want (if they are to fulfill their destiny),
or, at least, what it wants men to achieve. The sciences provide this philosophy
with the limits of the possible; they define the radius of action of the human
will and the possible points at which this will could be put into operation. But
there is no real continuity, no logically necessary transition, between sciencewhich
never seeks or requires anything but its own continuous progress—and this philosophy,
which is always supposed to desire something or to inform or to advise, this ambitious
philosophy which is forever proclaiming that its task is to work for the good
of man.

But neither M. Rabaud nor M. Perrin nor M. d’Ocagne
nor M. Meyerson, has ever proclaimed that this is his task and his function. When
M. Langevin takes a position on the issue of war, when he speaks of the urgent
need to put an end to war, it would be wrong to say that he is doing so as a physicist
or, to put it more vaguely, as a scholar. He is speaking only as a private citizen.
When Professor Einstein announces that he will refuse to contribute to any war
effort, without even bothering to inquire whether his country is right or wrong,
he is speaking as a man, not as the author of the theory of relativity. It is
naive and truly bourgeois to believe that the protests of M. Langevin and M. Einstein
have more value than the protest of some anonymous individual simply because the
two physicists are in a more delicate position. The fact of the matter is that
the protest of a Langevin or an Einstein is far more offensive to the bourgeoisie,
which does not like to see its greatest men renounce the values it believes in
and holds dear. But the exponents of the second type of philosophy hold to a certain
conception of their particular mission, of the special mission that goes with
the accomplishment of the aims of their speciality. This conception has a history
of its own and a significance for our times, both of which must be described and
evaluated. M. Brunschvicg realizes that, as a philosopher and not as a
private citizen, he has a certain obligation to fulfill and that there are certain
models he should emulate. As he himself has said: "The heroes of the spiritual
life are those who, without referring to obsolete models or anachronistic precedents,
have projected lines of intelligence and truth which are destined to create a
moral universe, in the same way as they have already created the material universe
of gravitation and electricity."

If I understand him correctly,
this statement is an expression of pride in, and consciousness of, a mission.
It implies that Philosophy is guiding the world in the direction of its noblest
destiny, and that the common people have every reason to be grateful to the philosophers,
who create universes for them.

Thus, one must judge what
the philosophers are now doing in relation to this conception—which they readily
acknowledge and firmly believe inof a humanitarian mission that is independent
of all geographical and temporal conditions, as well as of any special interests.
By doing so, one will find out what scholars are really like; one will discover
their real intentions and their obnoxious nature; and one will see why it has
at last become both desirable and possible that they be replaced.